


Witchbound

by AuthorMontresor



Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, Bondwitch, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fluff, Happy Ending, Lesbian Sex, Orgasm Denial, Porn With Plot, Romance, Sexual Content, Smut, Some angst, Supernatural Elements, Vaginal Fingering, Witches and Princess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23025037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorMontresor/pseuds/AuthorMontresor
Summary: On a cold winter night, Alba thinks she can enjoy some peace and quiet. Maybe some self-loving, now that she's not going to be interrupted.Cordelia, the Bondwitch, has other ideas._____________________________________________________________A light-hearted romp (in more than one sense). Also if I have to write smut it might as well happen between these two.
Relationships: Original Female Character & Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Kudos: 34





	Witchbound

**Author's Note:**

> This is a huge thirst.

Seen from up there, the valley could even seem peaceful. Less lights than last year, but if she just focused on the stars and the white crests of the Alps, stark against the blackness of the night, it was not that different from how it used to be.

Alba kneaded her eyes with the back of her one good hand, letting the pen fall against the book. From the yellowed paper scribbled lines looked back at her. Better than nothing. She was making progress. A little. Her writing at least now resembled actual words and letters more than scrambled spiderwebs.

She let her back fall against the chair. She could enjoy a little peace and quiet, right? At least now, in the dead of night. The hearth crackled and popped from the other end of the room. It still managed to send the occasional heath wave. She was supposed to change the wood what, one hour ago? Exercise came first, but it was enough exercise for one night. She was not going to learn how to write again in one night, not even with all the help of the Lord.

She stood up, walking across the room in a straight line towards the fireplace. It was still a little odd to find her quarters so spacious; most of the things that used to be stalwart companions during her childhood had left empty spaces in their wake, or at most a pallid oval on the wall when she sold a portrait. Crossing the room was easier, though. The only other piece of furniture save for her desk and bed was a couch covered with crumbles and books. An empty couch, thank Heavens.

Her left hand reached for a piece of wood and tossed it into the fire, rising a small bout of golden sparks. She brushed her ruined hand with the other, her healthy fingers alert to the warmth, the blackened and writhed appendage now a hand-shaped hole into her perception. Useless.

A frown. She would _not_ slip back into self-pity – was way past that. She had done her exercises, administered yet another day, listened to her Chancellor’s complaints, and even attended Mass. The Witch would not come back for a while.

She was alone for the first time in a few, and she could allow herself to be at peace.

Scratch that. She balled her one fist, letting her other hand lay from her side. She walked back towards the window. She would _conquer_ her own peace: Alba Malcastria had come too far to let something so stupid as a siege make her heart waver. Arms crossed over her slight chest, she looked into the night, and the pale reflection of a blonde girl stared back at her. Blonde hair, curled up in a bow, twinkling stars of silver mocking those in the sky. Her lips tightened, their rosy colour stretched into a platinum sheen. Her azure eyes shone.

They would see through this.

It wasn’t like there were that much _fewer_ lights than before. Maybe one in four. One in three. She was still doing a good job. Wasn’t she? Her gaze left the lights and fires of the castle and city below, towards the opened valley, from stone and barricade into the fields and the wounds already left by last summer’s assault, trenches and holes where bombs had exploded and the still-undiscovered remains of soldiers. Snow has yet to fall, but a spindly coat of brine hazed over every surface, reflecting silver moonlight.

They would see through this. No matter what.

She pulled the curtains. Better to get some sleep. The fire would last another few hours, but she changed nevertheless, taking off the remains of her royal dress. For a few moments pale skin flashed against the mahogany of the walls before she covered it back with her flannel night clothes. She hugged herself, rubbing her torso with her left hand. Better. A little warmer. She turned and slipped into her bed. She waved her hands and legs under the covers, and they soon were warmer and cozier than her clothes. _Hmmm._ She had let go of pretty much everything she owned to sustain the war effort, but there were two things she would never give up: Father’s portrait, and this thick smooth duvet.

Her right hand lingered against her side. She had sacrificed other things after all. She could enjoy a little warmth. Warmer and warmer, in fact. Now that she was in bed, one thigh against the other, the haziness of the day was taking onto curious shapes, smoky tendrils of thoughts that pulsed against her skin, caressing it, beckoning her left hand to leave her side and sit against her leg.

She was not going to do anything.

Too tired – her eyes were already so heavy, and it was so good to just let her eyelids close and slip in that secret place where the pop and crackle of the fire sounded like echoes of far-away lullabies, she would just let her hand rest on her leg, maybe amidst her thighs, it was a little more comfortable this way, but she was so tired, really, she had no time for this. Even if the flannel and cotton was so warm against her chest, and her breath seemed to get a little raspier.

A tiny spike of need, like something firm and warm had been set against her thighs, a small ball of uncertainty. Just keeping her thighs against each other was enough to make it pulsate. Grow?

She sighed. She was supposed to _sleep_ , not lose time to the sinful sirens of the flesh. Maybe if she prayed a little, she would fill her head with virtuous thoughts. She shifted to take her rosary, and in doing so her thighs shifted as well… and the fabric brushed against those two stiff treacherous nubs on her chest.

A moan flew from her lips.

Damn.

She was supposed to _sleep_.

Maybe if she turned on her back… but even there, where was she supposed to keep her hands? Her right one did not even feel the pressure of the fabric against it, and it seemed her healthy one wanted to make up with that. If she kept against her side, her legs felt exposed. It would have been so simple to…

If she kept it on her chest, it was right between the pulsing waves of heath coming from between her thighs. They spoke to her, not through her ears but just through her spine. _Knead me_ , they said. _Just a little bit_. Then she could sleep, couldn’t she?

She turned on her side. A last-ditch effort.

She did not use to be like this. This smoky world of hushed groans and sounds, of creaking fabric and smooth warm skin had been unknown to her, until the Pact. It was all the Bondwitch’s fault. Like many other things.

And yet she couldn’t brush it away. _I want my payment_ , a throaty voice said from her memory. Burning emerald eyes, black hair like a cloud of spilled ink, alabaster skin, so smooth and supple. It all flashed against her vision even with her eyes shut. _I want my payment_. And she would kiss and prod and touch and knead and pull and push and slip and lick.

A low rolling sigh like summertime thunder. She was supposed to be stronger than this. She had conquered hunger, she had beaten fear. Why was her body betraying her now? Her small breasts – Mother’s gifts to her had only extended to the shade of her eyes – collected against each other, two round mounds of creamy skin. 

_Just a bit_.

The Bondwitch had turned her own body against her. Her flesh longed for her.

Not her heart.

Never.

Her left hand’s fingers rose against her chest, each breath pushing it in and out against her sweaty palm. Sticky. Warm. Not just her palm, not anymore.

“ _Tch_ ,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

She was alone, the Bondwitch was away on her mission and who knew when she would come back. Nobody would disturb her in her own quarters.

A quick check. Did the shadows in the corner wriggle out of turn? Was someone’s gaze kissing the back of her neck? Did she hear the echoes of a mirthful laugh rising from behind?

No.

All was quiet. She was alone.

The string holding her dress together was so easy to pull. It seemed to undo the entirety of its effort and it unraveled around her, freeing her breasts. Alba moved one hand to rest against one, while with the other she pulled down the hem of her dress, moving it past her rosy nipple, a single oasis of redness against her pale skin.

Her left hand answered her need and began to trace lazy circles around her nipples, ever closer, falling down against the twin heated stars of her chest. Her eyelids fluttered as her lips parted in a slow moan. _Hnnnnh._

A groan rolled out her lips. The covers ever warmer, like during fever. But this was a different kind of fever. So damp. The fabric sticky with sweat. And not just sweat.

She breathed in. Tangy. A hint of musk. Not sure how to call it. It was just there, demanding.

She had seldom explored her body like that. It was still all too new for her, just tracing back what the Bondwitch had done to her.

_I want my payment._

The softness of her breasts, the way they seemed to completely fill her left palm and overflow it just a little. Her right hand lay abandoned at her side, but even if she had lost its life, it could still be useful to her. Alba lifted her arm and put it between her thighs. She could not feel the heat or dampness: her hand was a dead fish, as it had been ever since she paid for the Bondwitch’s fealty, but the skin of her thighs was warm, and soft, and inviting, and to them her right hand was still warm and welcoming, still alive. It was enough, for now.

Sticky. And warm. So warm… not just on her skin, but… inside. Pulsating. Like a smith stoking a furnace between her thighs with each rubbing motion. Up and down. Up and down.

Yes, this was a righteous experiment. Her one good hand switched from teasing one breast to the next, pinching, kneading, the firm sponginess of her breasts answering to the caress. A few more moans left her lips. She was alone. She could be a little more open. A little more… vulnerable.

The Bondwitch was far away. She would not find her like that.

Her eyelids fluttered open and close. Did it even matter?

She had inserted her fingers inside… her, last time. She shuddered and her thighs writhed against each other. A feeling like that…

She really had no experience with this… she knew not what would happen at the end of this road. She had never reached it, like a gaunt fox never catches a swift hare. Maybe she could try? Amidst ghostly flashes of emerald eyes, and hair like smoke, and white lips, and firm teeth.

She chased against the pleasure, tracing and retracing lines of redness over the skin of her chest, and even when she moved away her dead hand and put her good one there – sticky, sticky and oh-so-warm – to caress, to knead, pass over her engorged folds, to slip between her two lower lips, teasing the shivering nub of incandescent pleasure that rested in their middle, like a hot stove she could bear touching only for a moment or two…

She withdrew her hand.

But she had time. Her breath came now in spurts, small echoes of the pleasure she was stoking inside herself. What came after rubbing, after kneading?

Emerald eyes and a throaty voice. Teasing her.

_I want my payment._

Just echoes. Sliding off her awareness like oil upon glass. She was there with her body, with her breath, with the nubs of pleasure she elicited every time her left hand passed and kneaded her nether lips, every time she bit her tongue against her teeth to stifle a moan, when she arched slightly her back and tried once again, tentatively, to tease her slippery entrance with the tip of her index… there, sliding against it… and moving it in circles until-

“What are you doing?”

“… _aaaAAAHHH_!” Alba screamed, her eyes popping open and her hand withdrawing from her folds as if she had scalded herself.

Next to her, crouched on the bedside, alabaster legs drawn to the darkness, the Witch regarded her with curiosity and mirth in her emerald gaze. A watchful raven, with her ivory skin, and curtain of black straight hair, shadows hiding most of her body from sight. Her emerald eyes shone like twin candles. The Bondwitch grinned at her reaction.

“ _Oho_! I scared you- _ugh!_ ” Cordelia groaned. Alba withdrew her palm, stinging from where she had slapped her cheek.

How… why… _why was she here?_

She drew the white satin sheets all over to her body, covering her half-nakedness, while the Bondwitch kneaded her mandible.

“Why did you do that?”

He would not raise to the bait. Her breath was broken, but now by shame and shock and… and… many other things that appeared and disappeared in golden and red flashes at the corners of her mind, like colours in the aftermath of staring at the sun. She was still so _sticky_. Her cheeks prickled.

“Out! _Out_!” Alba pointed at the door. “Holy Virgin, what are _you_ doing here? In my quarters? Speak, Witch!”

Cordelia frowned. She pointed behind her back at a large sofa covered in cookie crumbles.

“I live here. That’s my spot.”

“Not when… not if…” Alba panted. Stupid. Stupid! And still so sticky and needy and… and…

Opening and closing her mouth, fishing for words that would not come.

“Not tonight, Witch! Did I not send you to take a good look at the battlefield?”

“Yes. I did so.”

Alba tapped her fingers on the bed. Her embarrassment and shock slowly waning, as the familiar sensation of annoyance, of… tension due to being in the same place as the Bondwitch rose in her breast to cover it. Still sticky.

Speaking of which, Cordelia had, as she often did, “forgotten” to put on any clothes: the rounded shape of her breasts hanged, firm and pale, at the edge of her knees where her legs were still drawn to herself. Limbs sprouting from darkness like statues sticking out of a black pool.

She averted her gaze and the heated thoughts attached to it, only to meet the Witch’s sickle of a smile.

“I was bored. Unlike you, it seems.”

“Tch,” Alba replied, pointing an accusatory finger at the Witch. “You disobeyed me! I ordered you to look for threats on the battlefield!”

“There is none,” the Witch stood up, and even though shadows still encroached her enough to cover most of her body beneath her neck, Alba’s eyes were drawn to the jiggle her breasts did. Why? She was not herself. Her own session of… distraction must have turned her insane, or at least insane enough to be drawn to the Witch’s forms, no matter how tantalizing they actually were.

“All is ice and hollow bones outside,” the Witch muttered – was that a line from one of her books? – as she scooted over, leaning towards her, black hair falling down, a frame of a face carved out of darkness, a stunningly beautiful face, with large green eyes and thick platinum lips and… “Ravens are busy picking out what little flesh still sticks out from charred skulls. No wail resounds, the cannons of the invaders rust amidst the snow and all valor is dust.” She grinned, showing rows of white teeth. “Your Bondwitch leaves nothing to chance. I earn my price good!”

She jumped off the bed, opened her arms wide. From the shadow that was her hair cluttered rifle after rifle, ice and shattered pieces of bone still sticking to them.

Like the kitten she used to have, carrying a dead mouse indoors.

“I even salvaged more flash-sticks!”

“Did you come back to boast?” Alba snarled, and yet…

Stupid. Holding onto her covers, scared, caught red-handed.

The Bondwitch would not hurt her, _could_ not hurt her, but she was so close. All those little details could not be ignored any longer. The lack of breathing, her pale bosom standing still. Her emerald eyes, unblinking. Her alabaster skin, so warm and yet too even, too smooth, unnaturally so, a statue come to life.

She was so uncanny. Fey. So off-putting.

No reasoning with her. She took what she wanted.

The Bondwitch put a svelte finger against her lips. What was she going to do with it? Was she…

“No. I came here to eat the rest of my cookies.”

_Go figure._ Havens, she was a needy mess.

“Then do so somewhere else! I _demand_ you leave me alone!”

“Why?” The Bondwitch blinked. A crease appeared on her brow. “What were you doing?”

“I do not have to answer that!” She drew the covers even tighter. Her heart beat so fast the Bondwitch must surely hear it. And why was she doing so? She was the _Princess_. She was the one in charge!

The Bondwitch lifted a hand, hesitated. Some other emotion seemed to run through her features, though it seemed she did not know how to process it, how to let it surface upon her face. Her brilliant green eyes left Alba for a moment, chasing who knew what reasoning. Her hand disappeared into the surrounding nothingness of her hair.

“That’s true.”

Alba sighed through her teeth, and in the silence was a hiss.

Cordelia’s smooth right foot inched forward, still hesitating, like a foal taking its first steps. She reached for the bed. Why was she not stopping her?

_I want my payment._

She would not ask that. Not right then.

Alba would not give it to her.

She did not want to.

Did she?

She saw alabaster fingers coil around those of her dead hand, brushing against the skin, white thumb against grey knuckle.

“You do not have to answer that.” Cordelia’s voice turned into a whisper. “I know the rules. I am your weapon. You do not share your thoughts with me.”

The Bondwitch’s hand withdrew. She tossed a look at her couch.

“I really should go back my cookies,” she mused, walking on the tip of her toes, each swinging step smooth and silent against the wood.

_Good choice_.

Even if a small treacherous part of her whimpered at her seemingly losing interest so soon.

The same small part that jumped as the Witch turned her gaze upon her.

“But I _want_ to know. You were touching yourself. Kneading. Moaning. What was that?”

Her cheeks and ears prickled again. It was a bit like sliding into a deep pool of scalding water. Hiding her face under the blankets did not help.

“Witch. I told you I _do not want to answer that_.”

“No.” She pirouetted, inky darkness waving around her as she took another step towards the bed. “I am curious. I am a good weapon, I do all your bidding. But I am _curious_.”

“S-stay _back_!” Why was she screaming? Princesses did not scream.

_Unless they want to_ , that treacherous pulse in her chest sang.

“No.”

She slithered atop the bed. The covers shifted with only the barest amount of weight as she walked, crouched, crawled over her. Atop her. The ceiling was hidden by two bright emerald candles and an eternity of darkness. Two soft hands reached towards her shivering head, tilted it up, ever closer.

“You were touching yourself. Moaning like you do when I get my payment. What were you doing?”

“Witch, I command you…”

“I want my payment,” she whispered.

Her breath froze. The only sound the thunder in her chest. Popping and crackling like the distant fire – how distant? Miles away – and much warmer.

“L-let me get a bath first.” A plea.

She could collect her thoughts, reason with her…

“No. I want my payment, _now_.”

A pale hand knotted upon itself. Tendrils of liquid darkness detached from her hair, coiling around her wrists, around her ankles, smooth and cool as silk. Pressing her down against the mattress. She did not struggle. It would be easier to break through the walls.

“And besides,” the Bondwitch whispered, her soft breath coming to rest warm and damp against the small of neck, her teeth drawing the tiniest razor notes from her sweaty skin, “I like your scent. Keep it.”

_I like your scent_.

More shivers. She withdrew, still looking down at her. Her hands left her sides, palms pooling over her stomach, playing with the strings sprawled over her chest. Alba licked her lips. She was supposed to say something, to do something, but her hands were tied, her tongue a knot, and whatever thoughts just wriggling eels inside her mind. What was she trying to do again?

_I like your scent_.

She liked it.

_I like your scent_. Each word plucking at the strings of her spine, a tiny jolt of cold. Her nipples stiffening, so firm her own breath was clear and cool against them. Her exposed stomach pulsing with each breath, her muscles shuddering like the back of some untamed beast. Towards that nub of heat and dampness she had tried to keep secret and now was exposed right beneath the fabric, so close to the Bondwitch’s fingers. Not close enough?

“You were touching yourself like this.” Her nails sled up, trails of fire through fabric on her exposed skin converging on her breasts, cupping and kneading them. Her nipples against the Bondwitch’s palm. The skin so smooth, so cool. If she put her breasts in the hands of a statue its touch would have been as relentless. The Bondwitch prodded and explored, uncaring about her shattered breaths, her eyelids fluttering. She would take her prize, no matter what. No matter how hot her touch made her.

Damp.

_Sticky_.

“Just like I do. Why were you doing it yourself?” A shadow passed behind those green candles. “You were trying to trick me? Weasel out of my payment?” she hissed, lowering her head until her gaze was all she saw.

“N-no,” Alba barked. So close. So close. She was pressing against her midsection, and she would have wanted to push her away, but, oh-Saints! She was pressing _just the right way_ , amidst her thighs, her weight almost there, almost against that golden nub that was growing to become the only reason for her existence. _A little closer…_

Her hips crawled a little further down. _Just about there…_

“Lies are bad!” She shouted. “Princesses do not tell lies! You waited until I was not there and you tried to…”

“ _I needed it!_ ” She cried out, and then, unbidden: “ _Ohh-yes_ ,” as _finally_ the Bondwitch’s pelvis was pressing between her thighs and it was squeezing that hot dampness just right, squeezing her brain and her breath at the same time and making her back arch an-

“You need to pay me,” she replied shaking her head, sending waves of darkness to erase her shoulders. “What were you doing?”

“I was-ah!” So hard to speak. She turned her face, maybe to not see the Bondwitch, maybe to not watch herself debase her pride and honour to the needs of the flesh, like… like any _common_ woman. But it was a mounting tide. Her body demanded it. As tied up as she was, she had long-since lost any chance to oppose it. _Sticky_. “I was…” what _was_ she trying to do? She was not even sure. It must have been something sinful, because Father and especially Mother would never do anything like that. It was all the Bondwitch’s fault. It had made her body obscene, robbed her of her purity.

Now, if only she could get a little bit _closer…_

“I felt good!” She shouted, pressing her nub against the little mound at the bottom of the Bondwitch’ stomach. No belly button. All that curved expanse of alabaster skin as she was rubbing her… her nub against it. More. _Faster_. She panted. Her fists clenched and unclenched. Something was coming. What?

No idea. But she wanted it.

“You felt good.” The Bondwitch withdrew her pelvis, and she groaned at the lack of stimulus. She was so close!

Close to what?

Close…

“So when you do this…” her fingers left her breasts and travelled down, cupping – _ohyes_ – her golden nub with a soft sound, “… you _feel good_?”

“I…” why was it so hard to admit it? She turned her head this way and that.

“Princess?”

She pressed her fingers there.

“ _Yyy_ es!” She yowled. “Yes! It feels good! I’m sorry!”

“What are you sorry for?” The Bondwitch chuckled. She frowned, or maybe not, she was not sure… it was all so hazy and damp. The sheets adhered to her back like a second skin, so when the Bondwitch rubbed her hand against her again and she arched it, the sheets followed in tow.

“ _A-ah!_ ” Why couldn’t she stop her mouth? She gritted her teeth but in vain. A touch, a prod. Until then, the Bondwitch had explored her body aimlessly, playing with her breasts and amidst her thighs more out of chance or curiosity than desire.

But now… now she was intrigued.

“It shouldn’t…” she panted. “I shouldn’t feel _good_.”

“That’s dumb.” Another frown. “You work so much. You cry so much.”

_W-what_? She had always… she had made sure _nobody_ could hear her!

“You deserve to feel good.” Her other hand left for her breast. “This… feels good?”

“Yes…”

“But this feels _more_ good,” and she tapped amidst her thighs.

She squealed and would have squeezed her finger between them, but the shadow tendrils coiled around her ankles stopped her. She could not stop her. She could not react in any way but to debase herself further and rub it against the Bondwitch’s body. What was that place called again? She did not want to use one of the dirty words she had heard, but…

She did not know any other word.

Did Mother truly use to have the same thing?

“It’s strange. It’s… how do you say it? Trembling. You are breathing very fast. It must feel very good.”

Another tap.

“You have this place here. A hole.”

Green eyes looking down into darkness.

“I have a hole. I never…” one of her hands left for the inky spaces from which her limbs sprouted. She frowned, came back. “I am not sure.”

_Please_. She could not leave her, not now, at any other moment she couldn’t have been happier if Cordelia decided to blow herself up together with the invading force, but please not _now, not so close, not now…_

One of her fingers prodded against her entrance. _Oh thank-_

“It fits.”

And then it wormed inside, parting her skin and flesh.

“…ah.” More surprise than anything. Then her finger hit… another membrane.

“There’s something here.” A push, tentative.

“Take it out!” She screamed, panic rising in all its frozen grip to wash away the pleasant warmth. “Take it out!”

She obeyed.

Silence, for a while, except for her ragged breath.

“Did it not feel good?”

“No. Yes. It’s not… it’s not that.” Oh, heavens. Of all moments to have this conversation again! “That’s a bad place. I told you. That’s for… that’s for my husband only.”

“But you have no husband.”

“No buts!” Her head pounded. Oh, she only wanted to… like falling. She had been so close to fall over some edge she had never known before, and spread her arms and let the wind welcome her. So close. She was now tracing back her steps, and it did not feel good at all – it was a bit like having a toothache, but amidst her thighs – but her mind a smidge clearer. “I told you already. No touching there.”

The Bondwitch pouted.

Nodded.

“Alright. But I want you to feel good.”

No time to think, or to reason. Her fingers came back, always pressing against the outside, this way and there, squeezing her. She trashed against her bonds, and yelped, and groaned and moaned and cooed as the Bondwitch rolled her palms on her skin and on that one hungry nub – so hot…

A pause. She dared to open her eyes.

The goddamn Witch was lowering her face between her thighs. She did not breathe, so when her cool tongue rolled out to taste her, Alba hit the mattress with her head, her limbs seized by lightning.

“A-ah-ahh-ah…” she exhaled.

“It’s strange. A little tangy, a little salty.” A pause, a smacking of lips. “I think I prefer biscuits. Feels good?”

No answer. She had lost words. What was… what had just happened? It was like she had been reborn out of fire and storms, and every nerve on her body had been squeezed through flames and kneaded by strong hands until she was a mewling, groaning mess.

“I suppose it does.” Came back to lap, again.

Once.

Twice.

Almost there. Something was coming. Being extracted from her. A golden string, pulled out from between her thighs as she pressed and writhed, skin damp and bed creaking. Her breaths sound so far and ragged. And there was _nothing_ she could do to stop her…

The Bondwitch’s tongue wall all she knew.

_Nothing._ For all her power, she was at her utter mercy…

Like a leaf in the wind. So light.

Each lash a push towards that abyss. She was there. Didn’t even know why, or what, but… _something_ was pushing her up. Floating. Almost there. She arched her back. Balled her hands and her toes. _Hnnh_.

“I see.”

The Bondwitch withdrew her face.

_No._

She pressed a finger against her lips.

“ _Sticky_.”

She let her go. The black strings holding her limbs withdrew into the inky pool from which the Bondwitch’s arms flashed only once. She jumped off the bed to reach for the couch.

“I’ll go eat my biscuits now.”

“ _N-no!_ ”

“I have been paid,” she replied, jumping on the couch, opening a book and a bag of cookies. “And you felt good. Good night, Princess.”

“No! You can’t… I was almost _there_! I was…”

Why was she _begging_?

“You did not move. I don’t understand.”

“I mean…” She bit her lip. She was so close, the molten core was still there, she only needed to give it a little push… and she couldn’t – wouldn’t – be the one to do it. Not when… it felt so much _better_ … with… with her. “Please come back here!”

The Bondwitch did not move.

_Please…_

“You _like_ to give me my payments now?” She sat on the couch, putting the bag aside. “You were always so shy.”

“I-I… please, I don’t know what to say! Please just come here!”

A frown.

The Bondwitch stepped up. She walked towards her.

_Yes, yes please…_

Sat next to her.

“I thought it was enough. What did I do wrong?”

“I don’t know… please…”

“Alright.” She spread her legs. “But I want more cookies.”

“Whateve-errr… you _want_ …” she rolled on her tongue as she came back, and yes, there, she was there, prodding, wet and warm and pulsing, and she came back, she was back flying and floating… her legs moved by themselves, squeezing against the soft hair of the Bondwitch. Shaking left and right, and softly inside. Yes. Closer.

Looking down. Between her pointy nipples, to her stomach shuddering with shattered breaths, to her glistening thighs, to the darkness and Cordelia’s white forehead moving against her, relentless. No mercy. She would allow her no respite. Just like she… just like she had asked. Begged.

Cordelia’s tongue pressed against her nub, and something connected, something burst.

“…ahhh…” It was soft, really. A whisper. She blinked and gazed up at the ceiling. It was not… it was not her body. Her back arched, her toes spread apart, and her inside clenching and unclenching like a wet fist, her eyes rolling up.

But she was also up there, looking down herself, stiff and panting, and each of her nerves was Cordelia softly kissing it, her skin burned from a thin fire. She rose, reached the crest.

Slowly fell back.

Sled down to earth.

Back into herself. Lying on the bed. Emerald eyes looking up at her from between her legs.

Each raspy breath seemed to go through the entirety of her body. She was so damp. The back of her neck, her legs, between her legs, especially.

“Enough?”

“Y-yes.” Quite about enough. Her skin felt like a scalding plate. Whatever it would happen if Cordelia put her tongue back there again… well, maybe another time.

Why was she so _eager_?

“This was new.” Cordelia crawled next to her. Atop the covers. “You should feel good more often. You are always so tense.”

“I… uh, I wonder why.” Good. Her bite was starting to come back.

Oh, heavens.

She had… she had _begged_ her. Shame came back to prickle against her cheeks.

Something brushed against her right arm. White fingers touched the edge of the grey lines that went from the tip of her charred nails down to the end of her forearm.

“It’s growing.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, Witch.”

Another frown.

“I am not sure. You know more stuff than me. It’s hard.”

She chuckled. It spilled fresh from her chest as she rolled on her side.

So hazy. Whatever had happened to her body…

No idea on how to call it. Maybe Mother used to feel like that with Father…

Thoughts for another day. Weariness was creeping up along her legs, and arms. Foggy. Uncaring.

Too relaxed to think about anything else. Satisfied would be a better word.

Satisfied.

The Bondwitch did not leave. Unlike other times, she did not go to sleep on the touch. She lay there next to her, her white hand still resting against her ruined, blackened one.

Darkness rushed in.

-

Morning caught her like a thief.

She blinked, covering her eyes with her right hand out of habit.

What had…

_I like your scent_.

_Heavens!_

Her face and ears prickled once again. She had done… certain things. Unbecoming of a Princess.

But.

It did… it did feel good.

Still… at least the Bondwitch would leave her alone for a while.

Her left hand shifted against her thigh.

Maybe she could try and relive a few memories…

“Good morning,” _she_ said from behind.

Alba jolted upright.

The Bondwitch sat next to her, legs sticking out from the darkness kicking the air. She smiled and it was like a sickle of moon. Her right hand pushed a few crumbles between her lips.

“We’re all out of cookies.”

Alba groaned.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Hope you had fun.  
> As this is my first time publishing actual erotica under this penname, I am eager for feedback! Let me know what you think about this piece, please. I would like to go back writing Bondwitch, the main tale starring these two, and erotica is going to be present, so any response is extremely useful (I know typing with one hand is hard, take your time).
> 
> (Also if you want more of these two, check out _[Season of the Witch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20392057)_ , my other tale starring Alba and Cordelia).
> 
> Thank you again. Remember to wash your hands!


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